


Speed Dating

by fredbassett



Series: Playing Chicken [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: When an operation goes badly wrong, Wolf ends up in deep shit. Then the shit just gets even deeper.
Relationships: Wolf/Yassen Gregorovich
Series: Playing Chicken [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038378
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Speed Dating

Hanging by his hands painfully cable tied to an iron hook in a low ceiling was a definite clue to the spectacular failure of Wolf’s attempt to infiltrate a Belize drugs cartel. Another clue to his lack of success came from the fact that he was stark bollock naked. On top of that, he hurt almost everywhere it was possible to hurt. His only consolation was that he’d killed four of the opposition before they’d taken him down.

His employers were not going to be happy. Special forces operatives, even rookie ones like him, cost a small fortune to train, and his bosses hadn’t been keen on loaning him to MI6. They were notorious in the trade for breaking their toys.

Wolf tried to keep his eyes closed to preserve the illusion of unconsciousness, but a fist to his guts put paid to that sham, leaving him coughing and retching, trying in vain to keep his balance to prevent the plastic ties cutting further into his wrists. He could feel cold air prickling on his bare skin and tried to switch off to his nakedness, despite the inevitable feeling of enhanced vulnerability that came from having his cock and balls on display. Not that there was much to see at the moment.

His head felt like a sadistic gnome was trying to hammer its way out through his skull and an attempt to draw in a long, shaky breath sent a sharp pain through his ribcage. At least two of his ribs were fractured, probably broken. The outside of his left thigh felt like it had been stung by a bunch of angry hornets, so it looked like one of the gunshots directed at him had carved a furrow through his flesh.

Raucous laughter told him that his captors were nearby. He could pick out two voices speaking English, the official language of Belize. A third was muttering something he couldn’t understand in the creole patois of the area.

Wolf turned to look over his shoulder, catching sight of three heavily armed men wearing scruffy camo fatigues, their unkempt hair trailing down to their shoulders. 

One of them glanced at him and grinned, displaying a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Time for some fun.” The English was heavily accented but entirely comprehensible. 

The man pulled a suppressed semi-automatic pistol from his belt. 

Wolf clocked it as a cheap eastern bloc knock-off of a Makarov. The accuracy would be shit, but in a confined space, with him strung up like a dead pig in a freezer, the guy would hardly be able to miss. The man walked over to Wolf and jabbed the barrel of the suppressor into the base of his back. 

Wolf twisted around, ignoring the plastic ties slicing it his wrists and tried to knee the man in the balls.

That earned him a fist to the kidneys, sending a white-hot flare of agony through his body. He grunted and tried again. The second blow in retaliation took the fight out of him and he hung there, retching.

The man pistol-whipped him across his arse, breaking the skin, and pain flared again. Wolf bit back a cry, refusing to give the fucker the satisfaction of knowing how much it had hurt. The barrel of the suppressor dragged along his sensitive flesh and the abused nerve endings, coming to rest again in the hollow at the base of his spine.

One of the other men cackled loudly. “Fuck him in the ass with it!”

The cold, hard metal jabbed between his buttocks and pushed up against his hole.

Wolf tried to swing away, but he could already feel blood from his lacerated wrists tracking down his arm and knew he risked severing a major blood vessel if he wasn’t careful. He did his best to wrap his fingers around the hook to relieve the pressure, but it gave little respite from the pain.

The suppresser jabbed into him again, pushing past the tight pucker of muscle and penetrating his body. A hiss of pain escaped Wolf’s dry lips. If the bastard’s finger was on the trigger…

“Leave him,” a voice drawled.

“Want him for yourself, do you?” one of the men crowed. “You’ll have to wait your turn …”

“Will I?” The question held such quiet menace that the three men fell silent and Wolf could have sworn that the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees.

The barrel of the suppressor was abruptly pulled out of his body and he heard his abuser step back a pace. Wolf turned his head far enough to catch sight of a man standing in the doorway dressed casually in black jeans and a blue linen shirt. Wolf quickly assessed the newcomer. He looked to be in his early to mid-30s with dark hair, watchful blue eyes, thin lips and a scar on the side of his neck only partly concealed by a heavy five o’clock shadow.

Wolf’s already dire situation had now taken a long walk off a very short pier.

Yassen Gregorovich.

The Russian assassin topped the most wanted list in every country that had the misfortune to have heard of him. He mainly worked for Scorpia but also freelanced for anyone rich enough to afford his specialised services. If he was working for the Corozal cartel, Wolf’s mission had almost certainly been doomed from the start.

Beside Gregorovich stood a tall, broad shouldered man in his late 50s, with close-cropped steel grey hair and a pronounced paunch hanging over belt of his trousers. Fedor Perez, a man who had so far survived 12 assassination attempts. Wolf’s superiors had been hoping that number 13 would turn out to be unlucky for Perez, but it looked it was Wolf’s own luck that had run out instead.

Gregorovich stalked into the room with all the lithe grace of a hunting cat, shutting the heavy metal door once Perez had entered.

“You were told to kill him, not play with him.” The drug lord’s voice was deceptively mild and higher pitched than Wolf had expected. 

Perez was known for getting his kicks watching women – and men – being brutally raped, and his tastes appeared to be shared by his subordinates. Like called to like.

“We’re owed some fun, boss. The bastard took down Carlos and three of his lot.”

“You’re owed nothing,” Perez snapped and the man who’d spoken stepped back as though he’d been struck. “Carlos underestimated him. Not a mistake he will make twice.” He glanced at Gregorovich. “He’s yours. Make him scream.”

The Russian walked across the bare room to stand behind Wolf. “Try to resist and I will let Ramon fuck you with his weapon, and I don’t mean the one he keeps in his pants.” Gregorovich’s English was unaccented and his tone of voice held nothing more than mild disdain.

“Is that because he can’t get his dick up?” Wolf enquired.

“I don’t know, you’ll have to enquire when he gets the chance to take his turn with you, if Mr Perez is prepared to overlook his failings, that is. I think you’ll find Ramon is perfectly able to perform for an audience.”

“Are you?” Wolf asked, doing his best to sound disinterested. “In the interests of full disclosure, I haven’t been tested for a while, so you might want to wear a condom.”

“You’ve never been tested. In addition, your file states that your sexual preferences are relentlessly heterosexual, and you always travel with several packs of condoms. That indicates a cautious nature where sexual encounters are concerned. Mr Perez prefers bareback performances, and, in the circumstances, that is not a problem.”

“Fuck you!”

“Given your current circumstances, that seems unlikely.”

The sound of a zip being lowered was ominously loud in the silence that had fallen, then whoops and catcalls broke out in the cellar at the sound of Gregorovich spitting into his hand. Strong fingers prised Wolf’s arse cheeks apart and he felt the blunt head of a hard cock at his entrance, lubricated by nothing more than saliva and whatever blood the barrel of the suppressor had drawn.

As the men’s jeers intensified, Gregorovich took Wolf’s hips in an unyielding grip and then rammed his cock into Wolf’s dry arse, forcing fire through every nerve-ending he possessed.

As Wolf fought the pain, Gregorovich murmured behind his ear, “If you want to live, put on a good show.”

Wolf had no idea what the man meant, but it wasn’t hard to let out a deep groan as the pain of the second penetration tore through his body. The feeling of Gregorovich’s hot, hard flesh inside him was indescribably vile. Wolf couldn’t imagine why anybody did this for pleasure, even with copious lubrication. The iron grip on his hips prevented him pulling away and he was forced to endure the humiliation of being raped in front of Perez and his men, feeling their eyes on him and hearing their laughter.

He stared at the wall and tried counting the bricks.

“I said give them a show,” the cold voice instructed, the words muffled in Wolf’s hair. “If it’s good enough you might survive.”

A brutal thrust drew a shocked howl from Wolf’s throat as Gregorovich’s cock hammered into him, sending a flare of something more than pain ripping through him, something even more humiliating that being fucked in front of a roomful of men baying for his bloody. Pain he could handle. Pleasure was worse. He had no defence against that.

The instructors at Hereford had not spared the sensibilities of the candidates for Selection. The reality of male rape had been explained in excruciating detail, but nothing had been as excruciating as the reality of being fucked in the arse, dry and unprepared. Wolf knew that for some men, prostate stimulation could bring intense pleasure. He just hadn’t ever expected to experience it. Not like this … not at all. He’d had a girlfriend once who’d tried to stick her finger up him, telling him her previous boyfriend had enjoyed it. He hadn’t liked it. She’d been into anal sex too, but that had never been his bag, either. The relationship had lasted a month, and that had been three weeks too long for him.

Gregorovich subtly altered the angle of his assault, nailing Wolf’s prostate with every dragging thrust, forcing a moan from his lips. The Russian obviously felt that his acting ability left a lot to be desired. A hot flush burnt its way up Wolf’s neck, flaring across his skin as his traitorous cock started to swell.

The cat-calls around him intensified. He could pick out Perez’s high-pitched laugh and knew the man was revelling in his humiliation.

Behind him, Gregorovich’s breathing was utterly measured, as though the man was doing nothing more than strenuous taking a slow stroll n a parki, rather than fucking Wolf hard and fast, his hips snapping forward with brutal efficiency, forcing an indescribable mix of pain-pleasure-pain into his body as his cock hardened, despite the cruel laughter that echoed around the basement room.

“Make him come,” Perez ordered. “I’m sure his employers will enjoy seeing their operative like this, with his cock standing to attention.”

And Wolf knew with a sick certainty that Perez was recording the rape on his phone.

“It would be unwise to disappoint Mr Perez,” Gregorovich warned, burying his cock deep inside Wolf’s unwilling body at the same time as biting down hard on the sensitive spot between his neck and his shoulder.

Wolf roared as conflicting sensations tore through his body forcing heat to pool in his groin as he felt Gregorovich’s cock pulse in his arse. A painfully intense climax hit Wolf with the force of a knife to the guts. Thick come splattered the wall in front of him while around him, the men erupted in coarse laughter.

“Take the one on the left,” Gregorovich ordered. A heartbeat later, Wolf felt the plastic ties around his wrists abruptly give way.

Wolf kept hold of the iron hook and, with the aftershocks of climax still coursing through his body, twisted around, locking his legs around the neck of the man to his left and flipping him over, snapping the man’s neck with a satisfactorily loud crack. Wolf dropped to the floor a fraction of a second before a bullet struck the wall above his head. He grabbed his victim’s gun, firing in the same movement and taking down one of the men on the other side of the room. 

Gregorovich had slit one man’s throat, taken his gun and shot Perez in the middle of his forehead, before doing the same to each of his guards. A knife was also buried hilt deep in the drug lord’s throat. Clearly the Russian was a man who didn’t care to take any chances where his targets were concerned.

In the abrupt silence after the slaughter, Gregorovich said calmly, “Not bad for a man for a man in your condition. I suggest you get dressed. Someone will have heard the shots.”

Wolf was about to retaliate that Gregorovich’s actions hadn’t been bad for a man with his dick hanging out but before he’d got the words out, he realised that somehow, even in the middle of the slaughter, the assassin had found the time to tuck himself away and do up his flies.

A slight twitch of the Russian’s lips indicated that Wolf hadn’t done a good job of keeping his thoughts to himself. Conscious of the agony in his chest and the throbbing pain in his arse, Wolf grabbed his clothes from where they’d been discarded on the dusty floor and pulled them on, doing his best to ignore the tremors in his hands caused by the abrupt release of adrenaline in his system.

“Wasn’t the bastard paying you enough?” he rasped, quickly tying the laces on his boots.

“Perez wasn’t my employer. I was here as a negotiator.”

“Why only a knife?”

“He didn’t trust me, but he was foolish enough to rely on metal detectors rather than more old-fashioned searches.” Gregorovich pulled the blade from the drug lord’s throat and wiped it on the dead man’s shirt before returning what Wolf realised was a ceramic blade to a slim forearm sheath hidden underneath his shirt sleeve. “At my last count, there were at least 15 other men in the building, and we can’t rely on the element of surprise. Ready?”

“We?”

The Russian’s expression was utterly bland as he said, “Unless you’d prefer leave on your own?”

“I’m ready,” Wolf said grimly. “Just make sure I get my fair share.”

Getting his fair share wasn’t a problem, although to their surprise, the gunshots in the basement hadn’t been heard, allowing them to nail seven of Perez’s people before they met any determined opposition.

Despite his glib words, Wolf had only taken out two to Gregorovitch’s five and he could feel his strength fading fast. He was weak from the beating he’d taken, and the crash of adrenaline fatigue had sapped his resilience. He was operating wholly on muscle memory: aim, fire, duck, move, every action on a repeating cycle. If it moved, he shot it. If it moved, it shot at him and he returned fire.

At his side, Gregorovich fought with an economy of movement that Wolf had never seen before. The man’s reactions were inhumanly fast, and his anticipation bordered on preternatural. Each time, he went for a head or throat shot, working on the basis that his opponents might be using body armour, rarely double-tapping, secure in the knowledge of his own accuracy. 

Beside him, Wolf felt slow and clumsy, but as they reached the first floor, for a change it was his danger sense that saved the Russian from taking a bullet as he picked off a man who came at them from the top of a staircase, leaving Wolf to slot the one who came out of a concealed doorway behind them. The assassin nodded his thanks in the barest of acknowledgements.

“Not that way,” Gregorovich ordered as Wolf was about to make for the main door to the crowded marketplace outside the rundown building. 

Wolf checked his desire to put as much air between him and Perez’s headquarters as possible. “You’ve got a better suggestion?”

“Yes, or I would have saved my breath. I suggest you follow me.”

“Out of the fucking frying pan …” Wolf muttered, drawing a brief grin from Gregorovich as well as a flash of what might have been sympathy. Or could just as easily have been a bad dose of wind.

Perez’s men were trained to a reasonable standard, but they were no match for a world class assassin and a highly experienced special forces operative, even if the highly experienced special forces operative was out of his fucking head with pain, slower than he’d ever been in a firefight, and in a really, really bad mood.

He’d heard stories about Gregorovich but none of them matched the reality of watching the apex predator on the hunt. Emotionless, expressionless, and completely deadly. By the time they’d reached a service door at the rear of the building the death toll had reached 19. They’d picked up weapons from the dead cartel employees and had improvised when needed. In Wolf’s case that had included strangling a man with a garotte he’d taken from another dead man, and in Gregorovich’s case it had been a thrown bottle of tequila that had broken a man’s nose before the Russian had snapped his neck.

Wolf had lost track of time and was faintly surprised to emerge into a grey dawn and teeming rain, a far cry from the bright sunshine of the day he was captured. He needed to get word to his handlers that the mission was a bust but Perez was dead anyway. If he was lucky, they’d be able to arrange extraction, but if necessary, he’d have to seek medical attention closer to his current position, then hope that he could arrange a pick up from the lads at Price Barracks.

“This way.” Gregorovich took off into a rubbish strewn back alley, not stopping to see if his instruction had been obeyed.

Wolf followed, limping heavily. The bullet graze across his left thigh hurt like fuck and so did his arse, both from the pistol-whipping and the rape. He could feel blood – or possibly Gregorovich’s semen – tricking down the back of his legs. His instructors at Hereford hadn’t mentioned that sort of thing, they’d just concentrated on the effect of rape as a tool of interrogation and degradation. No one had mentioned what it would feel like afterwards. So why the fuck was he following his rapist down a rat-infested alley in the scruffiest district of Dangriga, a town that in his estimation wasn’t living up to its reputation as the culture capital of Belize?

The Russian yanked open the door of a filthy, battered car and jumped inside. Despite looking like the rust bucket wouldn’t make it a kilometre without the wheels falling off, the engine started up smoothly. Wolf moved as fast as he could, doing his best to ignore the sharp pain in his chest that flared into a nova-burn of intensity with every laboured gasp.

For a moment, he thought Gregorovich was about to pull away, leaving him to struggle on by himself, but instead the assassin leaned over and opened the passenger door. Wolf lunged inside, slamming the door as Gregorovich accelerated away. He let out a shaky breath and wondered again what the fuck he was doing, but all he wanted to do was just close his eyes and let unconsciousness claim him. He bit his lower lip hard, trying to shock himself out of the creeping lethargy. He needed to stay alert in case they were being pursued.

The Russian merged with the traffic on the main street and drove out of town, checking his mirrors constantly. He drove as erratically as the locals, turning without indicating, overtaking – and undertaking – whenever it suited him, doubling back before finally pulling up behind a boarded up filling station on the outskirts of the town where another equally dilapidated vehicle was parked.

“Thanks for the ride,” Wolf said. “Don’t suppose you’d let me make a call?”

“No, but I will drop you off somewhere your friends can collect you.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe me if I said out of the goodness of my heart?”

“No.”

Gregorovich smiled but his eyes were untouched by any humour. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Wolf wanted to yell that he had come and blood leaking out of his torn arse thanks to him, but even with anger boiling hot inside him, he had enough common sense to know that antagonising the man wouldn’t do him any good.

“Yeah, thanks a bunch. What are we going to do for a second date?”

“I’m going to give you a ride on a luxury yacht.”

“My lucky day,” Wolf muttered. “For the record, I prefer flowers and chocolates on a first date, not a dick up my arse from someone who can’t take no for an answer.”

“Noted.”

Gregorovich tipped a set of keys out of a rusty coke can lying on its side next to a pile of rubble and unlocked the car.

Wolf trailed after him, in too much fucking pain to care whether the other man was lying or not.

Gregorovich drove south out of the town, picking up the coast road, clearly certain now that they hadn’t picked up a tail.

“Sleep, if you can,” the Russian told him. “I’ll wake you if I need you.”

Cradling the gun on his lap like a teddy bear, Wolf finally allowed himself to drift into an uneasy sleep.

**** 

“Time to wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Wolf cracked open a gummy eye. “Thank fuck you didn’t kiss me.”

“You’re not my type.”

“So why did you come in my arse?” The words were out of his mouth before Wolf could bite them back.

“Friction.” After delivering that one word in a tone of supreme disinterest, Gregorovich got out of the car and walked off.

Wolf groaned as he tried to follow him. He’d stiffened up on the drive and could barely move. A quick glance around told him they were in the middle of nowhere, trees on all sides. The car was parked on the edge of a rough track and ahead, the sun was sinking into a calm sea in a blaze of crimson glory. Beside a low rocky headland to the south, he could see the sleek lines of a large yacht moored in a natural harbour. The assassin hadn’t been lying about their second date.

Gregorovich made his way around the top of the beach with Wolf once again trailing along behind like a sulky teenager. He was exhausted, in pain, hungry and thirsty. And pissed off. Very, very pissed off.

The Russian moved with the lithe grace of a hunting cat, picking his way over the sand and rocks then jumping lightly onto the yacht’s deck. Wolf’s progress was slower. As he climbed aboard, he noted the name, _Fer de Lance_. Nothing in Gregorovich’s slender file had referred to a liking for sailing, but for business in Belize a yacht made a lot of sense. He wondered vaguely if gun turrets would rise out of the deck at the touch of a button in best Bond villain style.

A crew member in dark clothing stepped up. “Ready to sail, sir.”

Gregorovich nodded. “Have medical supplies sent to the guest quarters along with food and drink.

If the man was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Yes, sir.”

Wolf trailed after his unlikely benefactor down gleaming corridors to a large guest room on the left side of the boat. Apart from a training stint with the SBS boys in Poole, Wolf knew fuck all about anything nautical, other than the fact that those lads could drink like fish and had a line in creative swearing that put even the SAS to shame when it came to inventiveness. He didn’t know whether it was a boat, a ship or whatever, and in his state, even the difference between port and starboard was a detail too far, but he knew a multi-million pound craft when he saw it.

Gregorovich opened the door to a large room with a king-sized bed and a sofa and two armchairs, all upholstered in a rich wine red. “Use the ensuite. You’ll find whatever you need in there. Can you manage?”

Wolf straightened up and stepped into the room. “I can manage.”

Gregorovich nodded and took him at his word, shutting the door behind him but not locking it.

The bathroom was as luxurious as the rest of the suite, tiled in gleaming white, with a strip of pearlescent grey running around the room at waist height. The shower was huge, with a large bucket head, and on the far side of the room, a roll-topped, claw-footed bath looked big enough for Wolf to stretch out in without bending his knees. As second dates went, this was pretty impressive.

He shed his clothes, pulling the fabric of his trousers away from the blood that had stuck the material to his leg. Doing his best to ignore the stabbing pains in his chest, he toed off his boots and bent down to pull off his sweaty socks. Kicking his clothes to one side, Wolf limped into the shower and let the water cascade down over his head and shoulders, turning the heat up as hot as he could bear. The water swirled red as it washed away the blood caked on his thigh and on the back of his legs. He took the smaller shower head on its flexible tube and directed it at his arse, pulling his cheeks apart and letting the hot water flush away the crusty mixture of his own blood and Gregorovich’s semen. The hot water stung, but he kept the jets directed at his abused body until the water ran clear at his feet.

The eucalyptus scented shower gel looked expensive and smelled like a koala’s wet dream. That stung as well, but at least Wolf was starting to feel clean, even though he was now shivering despite the heat of the water. Recognising the first symptoms of shock, he turned off the water and stepped out, reaching for one of the enormous white towels draped over a heated rail. His hands were shaking badly, and it was all he could do to wrap the towel around him and limp into the bedroom.

He’d got as far as flopping down bonelessly onto the bed when the door opened to admit Gregorovich and another dark-clad crew member carrying a tray laden with a pot of coffee and a plate of sandwiches. The Russian’s hair was damp, and he’d changed into a pair of dark jeans and a grey teeshirt, with black deck shoes on his feet. The other man set the tray down on a coffee table and unclipped a medical kit hanging from his belt and set that down beside it.

Gregorovich poured two mugs of coffee and without being asked, stirred three sugars into one and added a large slug of dark rum. He popped some pills from various foil packets and handed them to Wolf in a small saucer.

“Relax, it’s not Rohypnol. Whatever you might think, rape is not my preferred weapon.” He gestured to the pills. “Broad spectrum antibiotics, codeine, and a heavy-duty anti-inflammatory. I presume you’re not allergic to anything?”

“Drug cartels and their minions.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Wolf washed the tablets down with the hot coffee. He was trying not to give Gregorovich the satisfaction of seeing how much the hot liquid meant to him. His stomach almost immediately gave a loud rumble. He reached for a sandwich. Ham and a spicy chutney. It tasted like he’d died and gone to heaven. Three more followed it at speed, as did another rum-laced coffee and a bottle of mineral water.

The other man sprawled at ease on the sofa, drinking a glass of white wine topped up with sparkling water and eating a couple of the sandwiches. When Wolf finished eating, the Russian said, “Lie down, I need to dress your leg and your wrists.”

Wolf barely suppressed a groan. All he wanted to do was fucking sleep but he’d had it drilled into him that you ignored injuries at your peril, so he spread the towel out on the bed and laid down, doing his bed to ignore his own nakedness and Gregorovich’s appraising glance. The assassin quickly and professionally cleaned the bullet graze then taped a waterproof dressing around his thigh. Next, he cleaned and bandaged the deep lacerations around Wolf’s wrists.

“Turn over.”

Wolf stiffened as fear hit him hard in his guts.

“I told you, you’re not my type.”

“So why rape me?”

“To save your life. It was nothing personal.”

“Why bother?”

“The bonus will more than make up for the inconvenience.”

Wolf blinked, trying to chase the fuzzy thoughts from his head. Gregorovich was making no fucking sense.

“I said, turn over.” The tone was mild, but there was an undercurrent of steel to the words. “It’s all too easy to get an infection from anal tearing.”

Something in the man’s studiously bland tone told Wolf he was speaking from experience. He looked into Gregorovich’s impassive eyes and saw nothing more than his own reflection. If eyes were the window on the soul, he’d swear that Gregorovich didn’t have one. Reluctantly, Wolf rolled onto his stomach, his breath hissing between his teeth at the pain from his ribs.

“Spread your legs.” The snap of a rubber glove wasn’t in the slightest bit comforting nor were the cool fingers that pulled his bruised arse cheeks apart. “I’m about to use antiseptic wipes,” Gregorovich told him. “It will sting.”

It did. Wolf didn’t bother to stifle a gasp. “Did I tear?” He surprised himself by managing to keep his voice level.

“Yes. There’s bruising and some tearing, but nothing that won’t heal. I’m going to apply antiseptic gel, inside and out. It’ll also help with the pain.”

“You’re going to stick your fucking finger up my arse?”

“Yes.”

“No flowers and chocolates? I told you, I don’t put out on a first date.”

By way of answer, a surprisingly gentle finger stroked lightly over his abused hole, coating the tight pucker with cool gel. More was applied directly to the exterior of his body, then he felt a well-lubricated finger slip inside him. Wolf sucked in a sharp breath and bit down on his forearm to prevent himself crying out. His head was swimming with the effects of the rum and the worst case of adrenaline fatigue he’d ever known. The fact that the world’s premier assassin was carefully rubbing antiseptic gel up his arse was just the icing on a very peculiar cake.

“Why?” Wolf asked.

“Because it will reduce the chances of infection and it will also reduce the pain.”

“That’s not what I fucking meant. Why not just shoot Perez? Or did you want to get your end away first? Do you get a kick out of rape?”

“No.” A finger circled his hole a final time and then withdrew. “I told you, rape is not a weapon I prefer to deploy. But in this case, it served as a distraction. Would you have preferred to keep your virtue and die?” 

Wolf heard the glove being pulled off, then Gregorovich went into the bathroom to wash his hands.

Wolf rested his cheek on the cool cotton pillowcase, trying to dampen down his embarrassment.

“Get into bed,” Gregorovich instructed when he came out of the bathroom. “You’ll sleep better that way.”

“Why?” Wolf asked again.

The assassin sighed. “Are you always this annoying when someone saves your life?”

“Probably.”

“If it helps you sleep, I raped you because it allayed Perez’s suspicions and gave me the edge I needed. And as I’ve already told you, MI6 will pay a healthy bonus of the return of one of their operatives alive and relatively unharmed, so it made good financial sense as well.”

“You said you were there as a negotiator.”

“I was, but Perez was not inclined to negotiate. A change of strategy was needed. Your arrival provided that.”

“What makes you think MI6 will pay you a brass penny?”

“Custom and precedent.”

Wolf rolled onto his back, not bothering to hide his astonishment. “You’re working for them?”

Gregorovich’s expression remained as inscrutable as ever. “No more questions. You’ll be more comfortable under the covers. Good night. If you need anything, there’s a buzzer by the side of the bed.”

The assassin walked to the door without looking back.

Just as he was about to leave the room, Wolf said quietly, “Thank you.” A heartbeat later, he added, “For saving my life, not for fucking raping me.”

“You’re welcome.” 

The two words were redolent with cool amusement.

With the door closed, Wolf managed to manoeuvre himself under the duvet and quickly slipped into a deep – and thankfully dreamless – sleep.

****

“If you were paying Gregorovich, why send me on the same mission?” 

Neither Blunt nor Jones betrayed even a flicker of surprise at the question.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Blunt said. “A transcript of this interview will be sent to the DSF in the usual way.”

Wolf had watched Blunt stop the recording a heartbeat before he’d asked the question about Gregorovich but he didn’t care. Blunt and his peppermint sucking attack dog could fuck off. He just wanted them to know he knew about their devious games. 

“Did he get his bonus?”

Mrs Jones stood up. “I’ll arrange for a car to return you to the barracks.”

“No thanks.”

Her sceptical glance reminded Wolf that he still looked like shit and was moving like an 80-year-old, but he’d be damned if he’d take anything MI6 had to offer. He could handle the fucking tube to Regent’s Park and the walk to Albany Street Barracks without keeling over.

Just.

**** 

His second debrief back in Credenhill was equally as thorough, but his CO was better than the spooks at spotting when he was holding something back.

Major Charlie Peters heard what Wolf had to say, probably guessed much of what he left unsaid, and then poured him a large single malt from the bottle he kept in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. 

Wolf was glad of the fiery trail the whisky burnt down his throat, spreading warmth in his stomach.

“Have you seen a medic?” 

“In Belize. I’m fine now, boss.”

Peters rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that crap. See a medic and get him to send me a report.” The blunt Yorkshireman pushed the bottle across the desk. “And see Yaeger. He’ll talk you through the rest.” 

Wolf finished what was in his glass in two swallows and poured himself another. It had been bad enough having to see the emergency medic at the base in Belize. He didn’t want another lecture on how to wipe his arse to minimise the risk of infection from the barely healed tears, but he knew his boss wouldn’t take no for an answer. But he didn’t want to discuss what had happened with the squadron’s tame shrink.

“Do I have to, boss?”

“No, but I can promise you it’ll help.”

“Can you?” The words were out before Wolf could stop the retort. Shit, he really needed to stop his tongue running away with him.

“It helped me.”

Wolf’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected that.

“I was the same age as you. An op in Afghan went bad. There were three of them. You won’t forget it, but it will get easier. Now go home. You’re on the sick until those ribs heal. No fucking argument. Got it?”

“Got it, boss.” Wolf knocked back the second whisky and stood up.

“The rest of your lads’ll be back at the end of next week. They’re just wrapping a job in Yemen. Until then, stay out of fucking trouble. In fact, do me a favour and stay out of fucking trouble for the rest of the month.”

Wolf grinned. “I’ll do my best, boss.”

By the time he got back to his small cottage on the outskirts of Credenhill village he was knackered and just wanted to crash out in bed with a beer. He’d worry about food tomorrow. There was probably a pizza lurking around in the freezer if he needed something.

The smell of cooking hit him as soon as he opened the door.

What the fuck? The major had said the lads weren’t due back until next week and he hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone else …

He hit the light switch and looked around for the nearest weapon.

An enormous vase of flowers on the coffee table in the middle of the small living room looked like half the contents of a fucking florist’s shop had been emptied into an enormous vase that he’d never seen before. 

The box of chocolates on the table next to the flowers looked expensive.

A small envelope on top of them was addressed to him by his real name. 

The plain card inside simply said: “For what it’s worth, I would have preferred to handle things differently. YG.”

To Wolf’s surprise, it was worth more than he wanted to admit.


End file.
